


Where the light doesn’t reach

by Apuzzlingprince



Series: Witcher Fanfics [14]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blasphemy, Choking, Enemies to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Light Bondage, M/M, Monster sex, Oral Sex, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-25 23:05:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14987531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apuzzlingprince/pseuds/Apuzzlingprince
Summary: “It’s not that I want something, Geralt,” said O’Dimm as he followed Geralt out into the forest, stepping uncomfortably close. “It’s that Ideservesomething. I did, after all, just save your life.”O'Dimm convinces Geralt to play his games. Just how low is Geralt willing to go for him?





	1. Part one

**Author's Note:**

> Here's that O'Dimm/Geralt fic I promised to write! I was going to continue the other one (and I still might at some point), but I got bit hard by a different plot. I hope you guys enjoy this! It's probably one of the filthiest fics I've ever written, haha.
> 
> I'll be posting the next part shortly! I just need to finish editing, as per usual.

To live a long life as a witcher, one had to perfect the art of contingency plans. It had taken Geralt many painful lessons to learn this, in both Kaer Morhen and beyond, but by his fifties, he had started developing contingency plans for his contingency plans and even had backups in case both of those failed. There was rarely a situation where he didn’t have a potion, oil, or decoction that would tip the fight in his favour, or at the very least even the battlefield. However, when it came to his opponents having overwhelming brute strength, there was little he could do to combat that. Which was exactly the problem he had just run into.

One chort was difficult enough for even the most seasoned of witcher to deal with, but _two_? Chorts were supposed to be solitary creatures. When he’d received the contract, it hadn’t crossed his mind that he would have more than one opponent. There was no amount of preparation that could have readied him to go up against two of these beasts, especially in as compact a space as a cave. He’d be lucky to get out with his life.

They noticed him simultaneously and charged at the same time, forcing Geralt into a leap that sent him slamming into a wall. He lobbed a Devil’s Puffball over his shoulder as he righted himself and then turned and ran for the mouth of the cave. The bomb only provided him with a scant few seconds of reprieve before the chort’s had recovered and resumed their charge, catching him in the side with their horns and flinging him to the ground before he could reach liberation. He landed hard, the breath forced out of his lungs by the impact. He barely managed to squeeze out a groan.

One of the chort’s horns had left a great gash in his side. He winced at the sight of it, pressing a palm hard over the wound to stifle the bleeding and struggling to his feet, just barely managing to evade the chort’s as they barrelled across the cave. One slammed into a wall, while the other turned in time to stomp Geralt back into the ground, drawing a shrill yell out of him. He struggled beneath its talons and succeeded only in driving them further into his armour, the tips of them drawing bloody cuts into his chest.

 _Well_ , he thought, dazed, feeling the chort’s hot breath roll over his face. _Witcher’s never do die in their bed._

He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to watch the final blow come.

He waited.

After several long seconds of nothing, he tentatively cracked his eyes back open.

The chort was hunched over him, completely motionless. He neither saw nor felt it breathing. He twisted out from under its massive paw to glance at the other Chort, which he found just as immobile. Slowly, he rose to his feet to better examine the beasts, reaching out to tentatively touch the chort closest to him. The fine, bristly fur on its back stuck up wherever he pushed it. It was a marvel that kept him thoroughly occupied for a good minute.

“Having fun, Geralt?”

He jumped and turned fast enough to give himself whiplash.

Despite the fact the man had just prevented his messy death, he was none too happy to find Gaunter O’Dimm standing at the mouth of the cave. He was sure O’Dimm was wearing his customary smile, though it was hard to tell with the sun glaring in around him.

“Thought I banished you.” He took long strides away from the chort's, eager to get to safety. Should O’Dimm decide to rescind his help, he didn’t want to be anywhere near the chort’s when he did.

“Temporarily,” said O’Dimm, and Geralt was close enough now to see his smile and steepled fingers. “You didn’t think that was permanent, did you?”

“Hoped, more like,” said Geralt.

“How rude," said O'Dimm. "Is that any way to talk to the man that just saved your life? And from a particularly gruesome death, at that.”

Geralt peered over O’Dimm’s shoulder. The trees had gone completely still. Birds had stopped mid-flight. It was an odd sight.

“It’s the least you could do after the shit you pulled when last we met.” He heaved himself up onto the rocky slope that would enable him to exit the cave, keeping a wide breadth between himself and O’Dimm.

“Whatever do you mean?” asked O’Dimm, feigning an innocent tone. “I helped you, you helped me. If anyone should be angry, it is me for being painted as the antagonist after being nothing but _charitable_ towards you.”

Geralt snorted. “For your own benefit. That I got anything out of it was a necessity of getting what you wanted.”

“That is generally how exchanges go,” said O’Dimm. “And I needed not save you or help you to get you to do what I wanted, but I did. Unless the definition of charity has changed recently, I believe it applies.”

“So you did the bare minimum to make things fair,” said Geralt, passing O’Dimm to step into the eerily silent forest. There was not a hint of motion anywhere in the distance. “Doesn’t change the fact you lied to me. Manipulated me,” he finished, turning back to O’Dimm, finding the sight of the still forest unsettling. He didn’t know how this time manipulation shit worked, but he wasn’t a fan.

O’Dimm sighed in an indulgent fashion. “If you wish to see it that way, very well, but I consider myself to have been appropriately forthright.”

“Fine. I don’t really care,” said Geralt. “Unless you’re intending to be ‘forthright’ about what you want this time around as well, then cut the time crap and leave me be.”

“It’s not that I want something, Geralt,” said O’Dimm as he followed Geralt out into the forest, stepping uncomfortably close. “It’s that I _deserve_ something. I did, after all, just save your life.”

“For all I know, you put that second Chort there,” said Geralt.

“You wound me with such accusations,” said O’Dimm with feigned dismay. “I merely saw you in need of help and extended a hand.”

“And you just happened to be in the area?”

“Of course not.” O’Dimm’s lips parted, showing a slither of teeth. It was enough to bring goosebumps to Geralt’s forearms. He didn't like that smile. “Since our tryst, I have been keeping an eye on you.”

“Stalking me, you mean.”

“Whatever you wish to call it.” O’Dimm flapped a hand, unmoved by his disapproval. “I know I would not be able to persuade you to think otherwise, but it still stands that the only reason you are alive right now is because of my intervention, and people are, as we previously discussed, noble in this regard. I’m sure you wish to repay me for my assistance.”

Geralt folded his arms, looking as unapproachable as possible. “Not particularly. I’d prefer to keep my soul where it is.”

“I wasn’t about to ask for it,” said O’Dimm, with a hint of indignation. “Do you think souls are the only thing I deem worthy of collection? Don’t be silly, Geralt. There are many things humans – you, in particular – have that I want.” His gaze roved from Geralt’s face to his feet, and Geralt eyed him with clear reproach, unsure of what to make of the staring.

“Such as?”

In one step, O’Dimm closed what little space separated them and coiled a hand around his medallion, stroking the cool metal with a thumb. Geralt couldn’t jerk back, as much as he wanted to; he would only end up being stopped by the chain, and he didn’t particularly like the idea of showing O’Dimm how uncomfortable the proximity made him anyway.

“All in due time,” said O’Dimm softly, the mechanical smile he always wore finally falling from his lips. Geralt missed it the moment it was gone. The placid stare he raised to Geralt was so much worse, so much more intense. An unearthly something stirred behind his dark irises and Geralt gave into the urge to look away, unnerved by the thought of what he would see if he looked for too long. He had the distinct feeling that O’Dimm’s name wasn’t the only thing of O’Dimm’s that could lead to people’s messy ends.

O’Dimm’s hand ventured up, touching his sternum and then his neck. Geralt shifted to evade further contact, and as he did, he realised he was completely devoid of pain. The sharp throb of the jagged wound in his side had receded. He probed it gently with his fingers, unable to get a good look at it through his armour, and found the skin smooth and unmarred.

“A final parting gift before we play,” said O’Dimm, and when Geralt looked up to respond, the man was gone.

Birds chirped, leaves rustled in the breeze, and the Chort’s began to realise their intruder had disappeared with a series of confused grunts. Geralt vacated the area before they decided to bring their search beyond the cave. He didn’t stop walking until he reached the edge of the forest, where he sat himself heavily upon a fallen tree.

‘Play’, O’Dimm had said. So it was a game. O’Dimm wanted to play a game. Geralt had no desire to oblige, but he suspected he wasn’t going to get much of a choice in the matter.

* * *

The start of O’Dimm’s game came in the form of a letter. Geralt hadn’t thought much of it, initially; he regularly got mail now that he had permanent lodgings, so he had simply thrown the letter onto his bedside table to read later, suspecting from the plain envelope that it was either from Zoltan or Ciri. When he finally peeled it open later that day, he knew right away his assumptions were wrong. The letter itself was undoubtedly O'Dimm's handiwork. Not that O’Dimm had signed it, but the parchment the man had used was filthy, and the writing was tight block script, and Geralt recognised both details from the brief peek he'd had of Olgierd’s contract.

Geralt read the contents through several times, but couldn’t quite make sense of what O’Dimm was trying to convey. It was a riddle.

_He gazes, still and silent, beyond his most faithful; he does not indulge in veneration alone._

He hadn’t liked O’Dimm’s last riddle and he wasn’t enjoying this one either. The smart thing to do would have been to discard the parchment and forget about it, let O’Dimm come and fetch him instead, but after a good hour of pondering over the riddle in a tub of hot water, it occurred to Geralt that O’Dimm must have been referring to the Lebioda statue. If that was the case, then the second line had to be referring to the bridge, named after Lebioda’s follower, but the third… he didn’t know of any other monuments around those parts.

Curiosity was what ultimately drove him to pursuing the final part of the riddle, though he tried to convince himself it was simply to face the inevitable (and hopefully under better circumstances, since he was doing it voluntarily). He dried, dressed, and headed out on Roach with his best swords slung over his shoulders and every conceivable concoction attached to his potions belt. He wanted to be prepared for whatever awaited him.

It was a short journey, being only a few hours away on horseback, and the sun was only just beginning to dip toward the mountains as he slid out of Roach’s saddle. He gave the mare a stroke along the flank before leaving her to drink and graze by the river.

Geralt passed Plegmund’s bridge and stepped into Lebioda’s line of sight, casting a careful eye over the rolling hills before him. He walked slowly away from the monument, glancing back every so often to make sure the statue was still within view, as the riddle _had_ specified its gaze.

Surprisingly, it didn’t take him long to find the answer to O’Dimm’s riddle. Nestled away between some trees and shrubbery, he found a small shrine constructed of thick stone slabs. One of them had O’Dimm’s title, ‘Master Mirror’, carved deep into the stone and painted black. It was a very basic shrine, nothing fancy, but it wasn’t visually unappealing. The burned crows sitting atop its pedestal, however, most definitely were, and while time had reduced them to mere feathers and bones, that made them no more pleasant a sight nor smell. Geralt wrinkled his nose.

The riddle hadn’t specified what he was to do at the shrine, but since it was a shrine, an offering was customary. If it got O’Dimm out of his hair, he would gladly throw a few dead crows his way.

“Who the hell would worship you, anyway,” muttered Geralt as he unsheathed his steel sword and used it to nudge the remains of the crows into the dirt. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen people worship a non-religious entity; people latched onto anything they thought would help them, but it didn’t make much sense in O’Dimm’s case, who didn’t provide for people in the way entities like the Crones and ‘AllGod’ had. There was no benefit to sacrificing something in O’Dimm’s name. It probably didn’t do anything for O’Dimm, either, aside from provide an ego boost. At least it seemed whoever had been performing the sacrifices had eventually come to their sense. It looked like the shrine hadn’t been utilised in some time.

Geralt sheathed his sword and reached for his crossbow. No point in dwelling on it. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could return to Corvo Bianco and enjoy whatever Marlene had prepared for dinner.

“A great many people like to worship me, actually.”

Geralt startled at the sound of O’Dimm’s voice. He spun around to confront O’Dimm, only to find his surroundings vacant. There was not a soul to be found in any direction. “You would be surprised by how many offer their souls willingly,” continued O’Dimm, his voice moving around Geralt rather than coming from any one place. The effect was disorientating. “Humans can be so very curious in that way.”

“Moronic, you mean,” said Geralt.

“Perhaps,” said O’Dimm, with something that sounded like a shrug. “Ah, but I do prefer to earn my souls. They’re much more fulfilling that way, particularly when their owner is of the stubborn variety of human.”

“What, no elves? Dwarves?” asked Geralt, turning back to the shrine. It didn’t look like O’Dimm would be deigning him with his physical presence today.

“Of course not. They have their own God’s.”

“You aren’t a God.”

“How would you know, Geralt?”

Geralt didn’t answer. He was sure O’Dimm was playing mind games with him, as per usual. “Why did you lead me here?” he asked instead. “Need some fresh crows for your shrine? Some flowers, perhaps? Sunflower are always in season here.”

“Charming as those would be, I have an altogether more pleasant reason for bringing you here.”

“Pleasant for who?”

“Both of us.”

Geralt cast a wry expression into the sky, seeing as there was no face he could display it toward. “Doubt that.”

“You won’t, shortly,” said O’Dimm, his voice soft, almost sibilant in his ear. “Get on your knees, Geralt.”

Geralt balked. “ _What_? I’m not about to pray to you.”

“Praying isn’t what you’ll be doing.”

“Not performing any rituals, either.”

“On your knees, Geralt,” said O’Dimm again, his voice soft and cloying. _Seductive_. “I won’t ask again.”

It occurred to Geralt, then, why O’Dimm might want him on his knees. He swallowed. Shifting from foot to foot, Geralt fought with the urge to leave in an indignant huff, knowing full well that if he did, O’Dimm would find some other way to make him oblige the request.  He wasn’t exactly opposed to it either, being someone who often relished being on the receiving end of _sexual_ commands. Generally from the mouths of beautiful black haired sorceresses, but he was quickly discovering that men doing it had an effect on him too.

He scratched his neck, which was suddenly feeling very hot. “Fine,” he croaked, lowering himself to the ground before the shrine and sliding instinctively into a meditative position.

“Good, Geralt,” O’Dimm practically purred. “Very good.”

The praise was more pleasurable than it had any right to be. Geralt hunched his shoulders, as though trying to hide behind their bulk.

“Remove your weapons. You’ll want to be comfortable for this.”

After a moment of internal struggle, Geralt complied, undoing the buckles on his belts and letting his weapons drop to the grass. 

“Touch yourself,” whispered O'Dimm.

“Where?” asked Geralt, without thinking. He grit his teeth against a flush of embarrassment. He was so eager. Too eager. His damn libido was quickly overwhelming his pride.

“My, I didn’t expect that.” O’Dimm chuckled, his breath rolling hotly over the nape of Geralt’s neck despite a lack of physical presence. Geralt shuddered and dropped his head. “Had I known it would be this easy, I would have tried this ages ago.”

“’Ages ago’, I had a lover.”

“A small hurdle,” murmured O’Dimm. “Now, touch yourself, Geralt,” he said, and there was a tickling sensation on the shell of his ear, as though O’Dimm was smiling against it. “You _know_ where.”

Seeing as he had already debased himself by kneeling on command, Geralt saw no reason to refuse, and nor did he _want_ to refuse. He was already swelling in his trousers and he had no intention of hobbling home with an erection. Licking his lips, he unbuckled his belt and slid a hand beneath his waistband, coiling it around his cock with a rumbling groan. It only took a moment of fondling for him to become hard enough to stroke.

“That’s perfect,” encouraged O’Dimm, and the breathy quality of his voice was _obscene_. It provoked a surge of arousal that was dizzying in its intensity. He might have suspected O’Dimm of some kind of mental manipulation were he not so preoccupied with obliging O’Dimm’s command.

He stroked himself fast and hard, eager to reach his climax, and he tried not to think about O’Dimm. He tried not to think about his dark, dangerous eyes and the ethereal light that flittered through them, nor of his finely stubbled jaw and quirked lips. He tried not to, but his mind provided an image of O’Dimm smiling down at him, reaching into his own trousers, and Geralt gave into his disgrace with a moan.

He shifted in the dirt, spread his thighs wider, making it easier for him to pop open his trouser buttons and stroke down to the base of his cock. His mouth fell open and his eyes fluttered shut. With the sun bearing down on him, sweat quickly collected on his forehead and neck and back, rendering his skin shiny and slick.

It occurred to him that he must have been quite the sight, spread out and masturbating before a public shrine as he was, but he was too close to finishing to care. Someone could have ambled on past him and he wouldn’t have registered their presence. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d partaken in public indecency (though not exactly of this nature).

O’Dimm was breathing shallowly, he noticed. “My," O'Dimm murmured, his voice guttural. "How stunning you look. A fine offering.”

Geralt swallowed thickly at the compliment, strangely pleased with himself. His previous partners had never praised him during sex before and he found that he quite enjoyed the experience.

He closed his teeth over his bottom lip, so close to completion now that little sounds were gathering in his throat. His efforts to stifle them succeeded only in making them choked, soft, somehow more erotic than they would have been had he moaned aloud, and it seemed to please O’Dimm, who let out a harsh breath that made it seem as though Geralt wasn’t the only one currently debasing themselves.

“Finish off, Geralt,” instructed O’Dimm, and Geralt obeyed, spilling into his hand shortly after the command. He hunched over himself, shaking and panting, riding out his orgasm. His thighs clenched and his shoulders trembled. Every little sensation was suddenly sharp and exquisite; he felt a bead of sweat trail down from his forehead to drip off his nose, felt salt in his eyes and an ache in his knees, felt his cock evacuate every last drop of cum.

When he had recovered enough control over his faculties to open his eyes, he saw that he had sent a significant amount of ejaculation splashing onto the shrine’s pedestal. It seemed appropriate.

He slumped back on his haunches, his cock turning soft against his belly. He’d never felt this filthy before, this used, and he longed for it to continue. There was something irresistibly thrilling about relinquishing control when the act so opposed his training at Kaer Morhen.

“You did well,” murmured O’Dimm. “I hope our next meeting will be just as satisfying.”

“Next meeting?” asked Geralt. He could not deny his excitement at the promise of another encounter.

O’Dimm didn’t reply. He had left just as swiftly as he had arrived.

* * *

Months after the Beast incident, the residents of Beauclair continued to oppose Syanna’s return to the Duchy. They saw her as the catalyst to the vampire attacks and just as culpable as the vampires themselves, and while they weren’t wrong in that regard, that didn’t stop Henrietta from trying to sway their opinion of Syanna through extravagant displays of love and reconciliation. When it became apparent to her that her current method of manipulation wasn’t working, she tried to shift their attention to a convenient scapegoat instead: Dettlaff.

During every speech and every celebration, she would remind people of who the true antagonist had been on the Night of Long Fangs and sought to frame her sister as a victim. Her success was moderate. Her subjects were willing to accept Dettlaff as a moustache-twirling villain, but many had known and respected the knights Syanna had ordered killed and their deaths were too recent for most to forgive Syanna for her actions. It certainly didn’t help that none of them knew her motivations for ordering them killed. They may have been more sympathetic had she been forthcoming with the details, but Syanna seemed content to leave things as they were.

Her speeches probably would have had a greater effect had Dettlaff been an active threat, but as far as Beauclair knew, Dettlaff was dead. In actuality, he was alive and living with Regis, but Geralt wouldn’t be giving up that lie anytime soon. After all Regis had done for him in the past, letting Regis keep his friend was the least Geralt felt he could do.

In his current state, Dettlaff was in no position to be a threat, anyway. He wouldn’t be able to lift a claw to harm another until he had the strength to reassemble said claws, and by that time, Geralt expected he would have cooled down enough to give up any desire to inflict revenge on Beauclair or Syanna. If Regis could reform after centuries of cruelty, there was no reason Dettlaff couldn’t do the same. Especially as Dettlaff was better suited for reformation, being someone who had once recognised the value of human life and compassion. 

Henrietta's diversions never caused Regis any trouble. Geralt, on the other hand, wasn't so lucky. Being Dettlaff's presumed killer, Henrietta often called upon him to validate her claims, and at Henrietta's whim he had been made to attend almost every function she had hosted in the past several months, from private dinners to long-winded speeches. He had recounted his fight with Dettlaff for her so many times that he had started adding in little embellishments just to keep things interesting. His most recent, and perhaps his favourite was to suggest Dettlaff's monster form had had a _huge_  cock swinging around during their fight, which elicited a bewildered kind of sympathy from everyone he mentioned it to. He particularly enjoyed how red Henrietta's face would become if he described it in front of her.

The next function on the Duchesses agenda was a ball to celebrate Beauclair's victory over the beast, and naturally, Geralt was the guest of honour. He would have shirked attendance had he the option. Unfortunately, as he had become comfortable in Toussaint and didn’t want to earn the Duchess’ ire by humiliating her with his absence, he felt he had no choice but to go. It came as a small consolation that Regis agreed to be his plus one. At least he would have a sympathetic ear.

“They practically stitched it together on me and it _still_ pinches,” muttered Geralt as he adjusted his doublet, trying to ease the pressure on his armpits.

Wearing his own doublet, one that was significantly less ostentatious than Geralt’s, Regis cast him a smile. “I’m sure you can tolerate it for one evening, Geralt. We only need mingle for, mm, perhaps an hour, and then I’m sure you’ll be able to find an excuse to leave.”

“And you?” asked Geralt, arching an eyebrow.

“I am a simple old man. No one will notice my departure.”

Geralt snorted. “They’ll notice. You have the ability to engage an entire room, Regis.”

“Flattering as that is, I will try to keep my presence discreet tonight. I don’t wish to be here any longer than necessary.”

“Good to know I’m not the only one,” said Geralt, pulling fruitlessly at the sleeves of his outfit. It was a shame he hadn’t kept the robe Vlodomir had stolen. That had been comfortable and adequately fashionable, but he had returned it to the line shortly after the wedding. He was no thief.

They both slid on their masks before entering Beauclair's palace. The celebration was being held in an opulent ballroom that was almost the size of Corvo Bianco. With its marble flooring and walls cloaked in intricate gold patterns, it was a sight to behold, and Geralt had to admit, he quite liked it. It was one of the prettier places he had ever been.

He made a beeline for the food, positioning himself before a platter of shrimp with the intention of spending most of the ball there. It wasn’t likely he would run out of seafood to snack on like he had at Thanedd. Busboys were practically tripping over themselves to refill dishes before the last morsel could be taken.

He grabbed a plate and filled it with shrimp, then leaned his ass on the table to watch the night unfold. Celebrations had started some hours prior. He and Regis were fashionably late – which was to say, neither of them had wanted to go, so they had put off departing for as long as possible. It meant they slipped seamlessly into the crowds of people, though Geralt expected Henrietta to spot him eventually and force a speech or something equally as unpleasant upon him. He would enjoy the food platters while he was able to.

With a dollop of some unidentified condiment, the seafood tasted divine. Geralt ate three shrimp in one go and earned himself upturned noses from nearby guests. He paid them no mind and plucked an additional three shrimp out of the offering dish. One of the busboys lingered nearby, casting the platter he was eating from anxious looks.

Unfortunately, he didn’t get to eat for long before Henrietta snapped him up and guided him over to a circle of aristocrats. Geralt looked longingly at Regis as Henrietta’s companions rushed to introduce themselves. Regis paused whatever spiel he was in the middle of to cast Geralt a sympathetic look, then resumed the conversation he was having with a gaggle of giggling women. Lucky bastard.

“This, Geralt, is Count Eries,” said Henrietta, ushering him over to a balding man. He greeted Geralt with a bow of his head. “He is a renowned architect, some say the best in Toussaint.”

“I say,” said the man, smiling toothily.

Geralt refrained from asking after the necessity of an architect when Beauclair had been built by and stolen from the elves. Nodding back politely, he turned to the next person in the throng that had gathered to greet him.

“You already know Palmerin de Launfal, of course.”

Palmerin gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder and congratulated him, not for the first time, on his victory over the beast.

“And I’m Jerome de Tabris,” piqued up a blonde man, squeezing into Geralt’s personal space and giving Geralt’s hand a hearty shake. “I believe you’ve met my daughter.”

“Yes,” said Geralt, glancing about the crowds for Vivienne and her betrothed. “How is she holding up?”

“Much better, thanks to you,” said Jerome with a wink he probably thought was discreet, but caught the attention of at least three other guests. “Please do say hello before the night is through. She and Guillaume are always pleased to see you and I believe they have some friends they wish to introduce you to. There are so many eager to meet the great white wolf.”

“I… I’ll do that,” said Geralt, stumbling over his words. This much positive attention was a rarity for him and he was well past the age where he would have used this as an opportunity to preen. To escape the eager gaze of Jerome, he turned to the next person in the crowd.

“This,” began Henrietta, before pausing and frowning. “That mask of yours does a splendid job of obscuring your identity, good sir. I’m afraid I won’t be able to introduce you until you remove it.”

“There’s no need,” said the man, and Geralt realised immediately that he was speaking to Gaunter O’Dimm. In a doublet of his own, wearing a mask of gold and black, Geralt hadn’t recognised him. He looked jarringly _good_ , no longer the simple merchant of mirrors he liked to claim himself to be. “Geralt and I are already acquainted, aren’t we Geralt,” continued Gaunter, before turning his attention to Henrietta and giving her a flourishing bow. “In fact, it is I who should be introducing myself to you, Lady Duchess. It is a great pleasure to be here, and even more to lay eyes upon you. I thank you for the invite.”

“You are welcome,” said Henrietta, looking at Gaunter with her brows pinched behind her mask. “What is your name, good sir?”

“Gaunter O’Dimm,” said Geralt, folding his arms. “Merchant of mirrors.”

“Of mirrors?” asked Henrietta, bewildered.

“The finest anyone has ever seen,” said O’Dimm, straightening and steepling his fingers. “And of my own design. They’re quite popular.”

“I see,” said Henrietta. “Mirrors _are_ a household staple.”

“Indeed they are,” agreed O’Dimm. He turned his attention to Geralt. “Forgive me, but may I steal Geralt from you for a moment? He owes me a dance.”

“Does he, now?” Henrietta sounded bemused.

“Provided you don’t mind, of course,” said O’Dimm, speaking before Geralt could offer a protest.

“Not at all.” Henrietta offered a tight smile. She clearly didn't want to let go of Geralt, but nor did she want to seem rude. “Please, go ahead. Enjoy yourselves. That is what this ball is for, after all.”

Realising this was an opportunity to escape further idle chatter, Geralt bit down on his protest. He didn’t expect they would actually dance. O’Dimm likely wanted to talk to him somewhere private, away from prying ears.

It turned out he was wrong. The moment Henrietta agreed to O’Dimm’s request, O’Dimm whisked him over to the area sectioned off for dancing and slid them smoothly into a four-step sway. His grip on Geralt’s waist and hand was firm, preventing Geralt from wrenching free. Geralt displayed his displeasure in the form of bared teeth, which only made O’Dimm grin.

“Now, now, don’t pout,” said O’Dimm, bringing their hips together and leaning his face into Geralt’s cheek. His breath warmed Geralt’s skin. “It’s a ball. One must dance.”

Geralt scowled. “I’ve managed to avoid that obligation until now.”

“Until now, you haven’t been the owner of a vineyard. You are now a man of class, whether you like it or not.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. ‘Men of class’ didn’t have a history of shitting in the woods and pissing in shrubbery, and nor did they come home sopping wet with filth after being called upon to enter the sewers by the Ducal Camerlengo. He was better off, perhaps, but his role in the hierarchy hadn’t really changed.

As they danced, O’Dimm guided them toward the back of the room. The steps were simple, easy, and they enabled Geralt to avoid crushing O’Dimm’s toes, though he considered stomping on them just to get back at O’Dimm for forcing him to dance.

“Guessing you didn’t come here just to dance,” said Geralt, still sounding none too happy.

“Eager to move onto _something else_ , are we?” asked O’Dimm playfully.

“Eager to find out _what you want_.”

“I thought that should be obvious after our last encounter.” O’Dimm gave him a sly look, fingers curling against the small of his back. “Our very enjoyable last encounter.”

Geralt’s face warmed at the reminder. On his knees, masturbating for O’Dimm’s viewing pleasure… he had to concentrate on their dance to avoid being aroused by the memory. “No riddles this time? No games?”

“Of course there’s going to be a game, Geralt; that is what I do.” O’Dimm’s gaze flicked to a nearby exit. “It just won’t be as straight forward this time.”

“Great,” said Geralt with clear displeasure.

“You will enjoy it,” said O’Dimm, sneaking them smoothly behind a mass of swaying couples. “Even more than the last game,” he added, casting Geralt a broad, toothy smile that elicited a shiver of anticipation. There was promise in that smile.

“Doubt that,” said Geralt, trying for a tone of annoyance, but only managing one of strain. He was disappointed in himself for giving in so damn easily. Their last encounter hadn’t been so pleasurable that he wouldn’t have been able to exert self-control had he wanted to, and yet, he didn’t; he wanted to find out what O’Dimm had in store for him, particularly if it involved O’Dimm’s hands on him this time.

No one seemed to notice as they slipped through a door and into a vacant hallway, or if they did, no one cared. The door closed behind them and Geralt’s pupils expanded to adjust to the darkness, providing him with just enough sight to view O’Dimm’s grinning face.

“We shouldn’t be disturbed here, provided you are quiet,” murmured O’Dimm, guiding Geralt back until he was against the wall. O'Dimm held him there with a thigh between his legs and a forearm draped over his clavicle, and when he ground down with his leg, he did so slowly, casually, his eyes gleaming white in the dark, like a cats. 

Geralt let out one long reedy breath. "Are you going to give me a reason not to be quiet?" he muttered.

O’Dimm chuckled and reached up with his free hand, pushing Geralt's mask off his face and sliding his fingers into Geralt's hair, freeing it from its loose ponytail. Both the mask and his hairband fell to the ground and Geralt made a vague mental note to retrieve them later. While O'Dimm raked his hand over Geralt's scalp, Geralt attempted to remove O’Dimm’s own mask, to reciprocate, but he was brushed away.

“Hands at your side,” instructed O’Dimm, and Geralt obeyed, dropping his hands away from O’Dimm’s face. He planted them flat against the brick as O’Dimm nimbly undid his trousers with one hand, freeing his cock. It jutted up against his navel. He was already hard. It hadn’t take much, and it showed on O’Dimm’s face that he was amused. O’Dimm brushed his fingers delicately over the velvety head before pressing those same fingers to Geralt’s mouth, prompting him to part his lips. Geralt offered no resistance as O'Dimm reached inside, his fingers passing under his incisors to glide over his tongue. O’Dimm’s skin was delightfully warm.

He kept his gaze trained on O’Dimm as he slackened his jaw, enabling O’Dimm to reach in further, to get his hand wetter. A line of saliva dragged down the side of his mouth. He lightly closed his teeth over O’Dimm’s index finger and swilled his tongue around it, feeling the hard ridge of a callous and tasting salt and the sugar of whatever confectionery O’Dimm had recently indulged in. Impetuous as ever, he did not look away from O’Dimm, as though offering a challenge.

O’Dimm didn’t blink. He watched Geralt raptly until his fingers were sufficiently wet, his breathing shallow, then dropped his hand to Geralt’s cock and began to stroke. Geralt wasn’t able to stifle a groan.

“Hush,” murmured O’Dimm, covering his mouth with his other hand, palm warm on Geralt’s skin. “You don’t want to alert the Duchess’ subjects to our activities, now do you? It would be quite embarrassing, I imagine.”

Geralt lifted his ass off the wall to better accommodate each stroke to his cock. He didn’t care how obscene he must have looked.

“You seem sensitive,” mused O’Dimm, and when he swiped his thumb over Geralt’s frenulum, Geralt’s knees almost buckled. “How long has it been since you last laid with a woman, I wonder. Months? Years?”

His last had been Yennefer, before they had broken up for good, and… fuck, that really had been a long time ago. He was a highly sexual person, but he hadn’t found anyone willing since then. Open minded as the people of Toussaint were, a witcher still wasn’t the most appealing of bed partners.

“It’s been some time, I gather,” said O’Dimm, laughing softly. “No wonder you open your legs so willingly for me. You always struck me as the type to take what he can get, from whoever he can get it from.”

It was true and Geralt didn’t care to try to argue the matter, especially while O’Dimm was pleasuring him. He sighed and bared his neck as O’Dimm leaned forward. O’Dimm’s nose brushed the underside of his jaw, his mouth creating moisture on Geralt’s throat.

“You’re so very frightened no one will ever want you again if you refuse, aren't you.” It was an observation, not a question. He spoke against Geralt’s skin, his teeth skating over Geralt’s adams apple. “I wonder how low I can make you go, how badly I can make you want this.” He squeezed hard at the head of Geralt’s cock and Geralt grit his teeth, shuddering. “Could I have you suck me off on an alter? Take you before a crowd?”

To those suggestions, Geralt’s breathing accelerated. They were more appealing than they should have been.

“Oh, Geralt, you _deviant_.” He laughed, louder this time, and Geralt was inclined to agree given that he was shamelessly bucking into O’Dimm’s hand, seeking more friction.

O’Dimm resumed stroking, paying particular attention to Geralt’s most sensitive areas, rubbing hard at them with his thumb. He might not have been omniscient, but he certainly knew where to touch to make Geralt shake and whimper. If not for O’Dimm periodically stopping to grasp the base of his cock, he would have finished – embarrassingly – within minutes. As it was, he only managed to last a handful more before he came with a gasp against the solid warmth of O’Dimm’s palm. Most of it was caught by O’Dimm’s fingers, but some of it stained his fine doublet and some fell upon O’Dimm’s boots.

Geralt’s head swam. O’Dimm remained buried in his neck, breathing in his post-arousal musk, his hand still wrapped around Geralt’s cock, stroking it through the final few twitches. He held himself against Geralt, lusting and possessive, and didn’t release him or remove himself until Geralt’s breathing had evened out. It was O’Dimm who tucked Geralt’s cock back into his trousers for him, and O’Dimm who buttoned it and wiped the evidence of their carnal activity from Geralt's doublet. Geralt hadn’t the strength to do those things himself. He was still recovering.

“So much for the witcher stamina, hm?” said O’Dimm, reaching down to unbutton his own trousers. Geralt watched him, dazed.

“Fuck you,” he said mildly and slowly lowered himself to his knees, because he knew what was expected of him, and he _wanted_ to do it. It felt good to kneel after straining for so long. His legs ached.

O’Dimm freed his cock and it was just as heavy and thick as Geralt had hoped it would be, and when Geralt held it in his hands, it was delightfully hot and veiny, smelling of salt. O’Dimm, however, stopped him before he could bring it anywhere near his mouth.

“I can’t return to the festivities like this,” he said, pushing Geralt’s head down to view the pearl of cum on his boot, shining under the meagre light peering in from under the door. “Clean it.”

Geralt bent low. He knew exactly what O’Dimm wanted him to do and he was uninhibited enough by his orgasm to do it without complaint. Geralt would have done just about anything, in that moment.

Hands flat on the cool stone, he opened his mouth and licked a long line up O’Dimm’s boot, catching the salty pearl on his tongue, swallowing it. O’Dimm’s breath hitched. When he looked up, he saw the man’s cock twitching and thickening, and felt almost accomplished.

O’Dimm’s patience seemed to have run out. He coiled his fingers into Geralt’s hair and brought him forward, jarring his cock against Geralt’s chin and lips, seeking the warmth of his mouth. O’Dimm looked, and felt, and acted needy and aroused, and Geralt delighted in the change, smiling against the underside of O’Dimm’s cock. He clearly wasn’t the only one getting off on something aberrant.

He was lucky he didn’t have much of a gag reflex, having fought it into submission in his youth to make taking witcher potions easier, as the moment he parted his lips, O’Dimm slammed past them, pressing Geralt’s face flush to his navel. Geralt’s hands reflexively jumped to O’Dimm’s thighs to steady them both, fingers curling into the fine fabric. It took a couple of swallows before Geralt adjusted to the intrusion. He breathed steadily through his nose, the smell of O’Dimm thick and inescapable in his nostrils, and he started to move, sliding back and forth on O’Dimm’s cock. He used his tongue only once O’Dimm’s grip had slackened, licking the underside of O’Dimm’s cock each time he was able to draw back far enough to do so.

The soft groan that left O’Dimm was startling. He’d never heard such a sound from the man, and nor had he thought he ever would. He doubted many got to see this side of O'Dimm, and that compelled Geralt to keep his eyes open, to watch O’Dimm’s face contort and his lips part. He looked more human now than he ever had, his face flushed and eyelids lowered, gleaming eyes watching Geralt from under eyelashes. The hand in his hair became so slack that it might as well have not been there at all. O'Dimm's fingers stroked idly over his head, nails grazing his scalp, praising and encouraging him as he bobbed. When he swirled his tongue, O’Dimm teeth closed around a moan.

“My, you are talented,” he breathed, thrusting languidly while Geralt sucked. “I may have to keep you simply for this purpose.”

Mindlessly aroused as he was, Geralt had no objections to that. His cock was starting to fill out in his trousers again. Assuming O’Dimm didn’t provide him with another hand job, he was going to need to rub one off before he returned to the ballroom, so to make his bulge less obvious.

“You look delectable on your knees,” murmured O’Dimm, struggling on his words, his voice low and tremulous.

Geralt tasted pre-cum on his tongue. He took O’Dimm deep into his throat, his lips coming to a stop at the base of O’Dimm’s cock, inches from O’Dimm’s pelvis, and hummed. The pleasant vibrations had an immediate effect; O’Dimm _gasped_ and jerked his hips hard enough to make Geralt choke – but only briefly. He was quick to adapt to the display of aggression, going limp to make breathing easier.

Instead of coming with a moan, as was customary, O’Dimm came with a growl and fisted his hand tight in Geralt’s hair, holding him in place until Geralt had finished swallowing. When O’Dimm finally slid out of his mouth, Geralt took deep, needy breaths and rubbed his throat with a palm to try and ease the ache that had developed there.

O’Dimm recovered his composure much faster than Geralt could ever hope to. He tucked his now flaccid cock back into his trousers and did up the buttons, all without so much as a tremor. Geralt was mildly frustrated.

“You may get off the floor now, if you like,” said O’Dimm, and Geralt obediently stood, startled that he hadn’t thought to do so earlier. He made sure to retrieve his mask and slide it back into place.

“Not much of a game,” said Geralt. He was going to have to keep speaking to a minimum so no one would notice how hoarse his voice was.

O’Dimm tsk’d. “Not all games have riddles, Geralt.” He straightened his doublet. “Fortunately, you don’t need to know what game we’re playing to participate, though I had thought you smarter than this.”

Geralt frowned. “Just had your cock in my mouth. You could stand to be nicer.”

“Very well,” said O’Dimm, leaning over to help Geralt pull his hair back into a ponytail. “You did a splendid job. Marvellous. And I expect you’ll keep up the good work when next we meet.”

“Any chance of you being straight forward about when that’s going to happen this time?”

“That would be terribly boring.”

“Boring is nice sometimes.”

“For you, perhaps,” said O’Dimm. “But I have been alive for far too long to take any pleasure in being boring.” He withdrew from Geralt’s personal space, folding his hands behind his back. “Besides, surprise is a key element in what I intend to do next.”

“Not much of a surprise if you tell me there’s going to be one,” pointed out Geralt.

“Oh, I’m sure you will still be adequately surprised.” O’Dimm chuckled. “You best hurry and return to the ball. Your friend is looking for you.”

“Regis?” asked Geralt, glancing over at O’Dimm, who had – quite predicatably – vanished.

He masturbated quickly before he returned to the ball, and only managed to get a few steps out the door before he was accosted by Regis, who scrutinised him for a few long seconds before suggesting that they leave. Why he wanted to leave became apparent when he spotted Syanna standing by her sister, her head down and posture tense. Evidently Henrietta was forcing her to socialise, perhaps trying to win the favour of her subjects by bringing Syanna out during a time of jubilation. It seemed to be working, as apart from a few scattered glares, people had not stopped their merry making.

Geralt was more than happy to oblige Regis’ desire to leave. He and Regis slid out before Henrietta could hail them and spent the rest of the night chatting over a bottle of Regis’ mandrake brew.

* * *

O’Dimm made himself scarce following their diversions at the palace, to the point that Geralt only knew the man was still around by the gifts he left scattered throughout Geralt's vineyard. They were small things; clothes, gold, alcohol, and trinkets, and they almost seemed a reminder that O’Dimm was observing him rather than genuine gifts. In fact, most of them were completely useless to Geralt and ended up in his storage, though he kept them all the same. If he was honest, he found the attention a little flattering.

It was clear O’Dimm could see Geralt from wherever his chosen vantage point happened to be, but Geralt couldn't see him. Not outside of his dreams, in any case. Ever since their last encounter, O'Dimm had started to frequent them. He couldn’t tell if they were being manipulated by O'Dimm, as Professor Shakeslock’s had been, or if thinking about O’Dimm had simply made him more predisposed to dreaming about the man, but the dreams were no bother. They often featured sex, and that was something Geralt was more than happy to partake in both in and outside his dreams. Sometimes the sex was with O’Dimm, sometimes with Yen and Shani, and sometimes with nameless faces that were far more aggressive than the other three. 

The thing that most stuck out to him most was the gender of his nameless partners – _always_ men. As a man whose bed partners had traditionally been women, it seemed odd that he should suddenly be having sex with men in his dreams almost every night. Particularly odd was the fact they were far more risqué than any sex Geralt had ever dreamed about – or performed – in the past. He tried not to make too much of it; they were just dreams, after all, and even if O’Dimm _was_ manipulating them, if the worst he could do was subject Geralt to waking up with an erection every morning, Geralt wasn’t going to worry. But he wished he could dream about something more _interesting_. Unicorns or Zerrikania or, hell, even that world O’Dimm had briefly dropped him into some years ago. Of course, that was assuming O’Dimm had any hand in his dreams, and he wasn’t about to ask O’Dimm to reach into them if he didn't. He’d much prefer the man to keep out of them, had he the option.

When O’Dimm didn’t show himself for two weeks, Geralt started to wonder just what the man was planning, because surely he was planning something. Creatures like O’Dimm were always planning. Or perhaps, Geralt mused, he had gotten bored and sought out new pacts. It was odd to think about O’Dimm conducting ‘business’ while searching around for little, innocuous gifts (as far as Geralt knew, anyway) for Geralt. Geralt hoped he wasn’t, considering the consequences of a pact with O’Dimm, but he tried not to dwell on it, seeing as it made him question what the hell he was doing reciprocating any kind of interest from O’Dimm. The guilt would niggle at him if he considered the _why’s_ for too long.

After the third week, his vineyard started up for summer, and O’Dimm was temporarily banished to the back of his mind. BB might have been running most of the operation, but that didn’t mean that Geralt’s input wasn’t wanted or needed. It would be their first harvest and Geralt wanted it to be a successful one for the sake of his workers. They didn’t deserve to suffer for his failings, and so Geralt ordered every book he could on wine making and got to work.


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's chapter two! If I edit anymore, I'm gonna go crazy, so I'm just going to post it!

Geralt awoke slowly, blearily, his head spinning and mouth uncomfortably dry. It took extreme effort to flutter his eyelashes and even more to urge life back into his limbs, which he barely managed to twitch.

He was just cognisant enough to question how he’d ended up so weak and fatigued. He didn’t remember taking on a job, nor drinking himself into a stupor, and he hadn’t undertaken any strenuous activity recently. In fact, his most recent recollection was of a hot meal served by Marlene and his lovely warm bed.

So why did he feel so terrible?

He tried to reach up to at least wipe the gunk out of his eyes and found himself unable to, courtesy of something obstructing his hands. When he felt around for what was hindering him, he discovered shackles encircling his wrists. They had been chained to what felt like a statue. It was hard and smooth against his back, radiating a chill through the thin material of his shirt.

He moved his legs and discovered with some relief that at least they hadn’t been attached to anything. Free legs meant he would be able to kick his assailant should they try to touch him.

When he finally managed to open his eyes, he did so to darkness. He had been blindfolded. It was thick enough to be impenetrable by light and he had no luck trying to remove it by rubbing the knot up against whatever was behind him, as his assailant’d had the forethought to tie it at the side of his head rather than the back.

With little else he could do, Geralt focused on squeezing life back into his hands, which had begun to tingle from a lack of circulation. This was far from the first time he’d been shackled to something, so the pain was familiar and untroubling. He knew from experience that it would be several days before it became intolerable.

Awareness slowly returned to him, driving away the fatigue and disorientation. He started to think more clearly and feel more distinctly, which was both a relief and a misery as the initial dizziness had kept his anxiety at bay. His thoughts were quick to trouble him.

There were plenty of people out there who wanted to hurt him, and even more that wanted to hurt witcher's in general. He knew a few people desired to scoop out his eyes, and some more who would gladly stick a sword down his gullet. He counted himself lucky not to have woken up on a pyre. Assuming a pyre wasn’t where he would eventually end up.

To the best of his ability, he tried to take stock of his surroundings. He couldn’t see, but he could hear and feel, and the lack of a breeze suggested they were in a building. A building that wasn’t underground, he noted with some relief, as it was pleasantly warm. It didn’t help much in deciphering where he was, but at least he could be sure he wasn’t in a dungeon.

A door creaked. Geralt raised his head off his clavicle, listening closely to the soft footsteps that approached.

“Better tell me who you are and what you want,” Geralt growled. He doubted threats would do him much good, but he wasn’t about to show his captor anything but hostility.

“Calm yourself, Geralt; it's just me,” said his captor, and the lines on Geralt’s face thickened into a nasty scowl. O’Dimm. He should have known. “How are you feeling?” continued O’Dimm as he approached, taking long strides towards Geralt. “The method I used to render you unconscious may have had some side effects.”

“Such as?”

“Disorientation and fatigue, primarily, and perhaps some nausea, but you seem to be managing fine. You witcher's are a durable sort.” O’Dimm came up and slotted himself between Geralt’s legs, his chest flat on Geralt’s. “I can still help you, should you need me to. You won’t be a very enjoyable partner if you’re incapacitated.”

“I won’t be a very enjoyable partner regardless,” said Geralt with a scowl. “What game is it this time, O’Dimm?”

“One you will find very pleasurable.” O’Dimm’s hands skimmed up his sides. It was enough to make Geralt’s breath hitch, much to his frustration.

“Might find it more pleasurable if I could see.”

“Later, perhaps.” O’Dimm’s hands roved up his body, gliding over his taut stomach and beneath his shirt, reaching for his ribs. His nails tore over Geralt’s chest, eliciting a hiss. “Right now,” breathed O’Dimm against his jaw. “I find your appearance agreeable.”

Lips landed on his neck and brushed delicately down to his clavicle, where O’Dimm bit the hard edge of a collarbone. Geralt was still gasping at the sharp sting of it as O’Dimm descended further, parting his lips to apply gentler bites to Geralt’s pectorals, no doubt leaving a scattering of pink marks on the pale skin. His fingers continued to rove, digging their way into sensitive crevices and prompting Geralt to shudder and squirm. He could have lifted his legs and kicked O’Dimm off, but the way O’Dimm was working him wasn’t at all unpleasant. The effect it was having on him could likely be clearly seen and felt between his legs.

O’Dimm caught Geralt’s hips in his hands and held him still while he pried open Geralt’s trousers with his teeth. Geralt wished desperately that he could watch, but the sensation alone was enough to make his cock swell. He hadn’t thought O’Dimm would lower himself to giving a blowjob. Granted, tied up as he was, Geralt was considerably more debauched.

With his trousers pushed out of the way, O’Dimm was free to drag his palms up Geralt’s thighs, kneading the ample flesh with his finger tips and slipping between them, exploring the soft, unmarred skin they offered.  Geralt swallowed hard. His throat was still dreadfully dry.

“O’Dimm,” he said, more a breath than a word, and completely involuntary.

“Almost there,” soothed O’Dimm, his warm breath spreading moisture over Geralt’s cock. “I may be persuaded to go faster if you beg.”

That brought Geralt’s jaw to a clench, and O’Dimm laughed, warm puffs of air rolling over Geralt’s skin. “That’s a no, I gather?” He didn’t wrap his lips around Geralt’s cock, as Geralt wanted; he gave the head a slow lick, providing just enough stimulation to make Geralt’s nerves sing. He twitched and shook in his restraints. “Such a pity. I’m sure you would do it beautifully.”

O’Dimm wrapped two fingers around the base of his cock, giving it a firm squeeze before swirling his tongue over the head. That brief promise of velvety heat was enough to make Geralt rasp. He wanted to thrust forward, force his cock past O’Dimm’s lips and into his throat, just as O’Dimm had done to him, but the man seemed to have anticipated this desire and had a forearm draped over Geralt’s hips, holding him in place. Geralt moaned out his exasperation.

He caught himself gasping with each long swipe of O’Dimm’s tongue and fought to remain silent, biting hard at the inside of a cheek. O’Dimm was damned talented with his mouth. It seemed O’Dimm had an aptitude for everything he did in the bedroom.

He licked delicately over a throbbing vein on the underside of Geralt’s cock and it was almost enough, almost enough to get him over the edge. But the fingers wrapped tight around the base of his cock prevented that, and when O’Dimm withdrew, his climax had worked itself back down. Geralt cursed luridly under his breath.

O’Dimm resumed licking, slower this time, teasing the slit of Geralt’s cock and descending periodically to lick a stripe up his ball sack. Sometimes he would apply teeth, and sometimes he would latch his mouth onto the side of Geralt’s cock and give a gentle suck that made Geralt’s fingers and toes reflexively curl. Whenever Geralt showed signs of reaching completion, O’Dimm would draw back and wait until his arousal had begun to flag. Witcher or not, Geralt could have cried from frustration.

“Please,” he said finally, choking out the word. It didn’t feel right on his tongue. Geralt of Rivia wasn’t a man that begged pathetically, not for anything. Except for O’Dimm, apparently.

O’Dimm rewarded him by swallowing Geralt’s cock right down to the back of his throat. Geralt jerked so violently in his restraints that he managed to jostle O’Dimm’s arm, albeit only briefly, as O’Dimm adjusted his grip before Geralt could start thrusting. Holding him still, O’Dimm drew back and let Geralt’s cock slip from his lips with a wet pop.

“Be specific, Geralt: to who are you begging?” said O’Dimm. 

Geralt’s pride wasn’t enough to stop him this time. “Please, O’Dimm.”

“Almost there. One more try.”

An unsteady breath. His ears were burning. “Please, Gaunter.” O’Dimm didn’t immediately oblige his pleading. He asked again, his voice breaking. “Come on, that has to be right. I said please. I-“ He was choked into silence by O’Dimm descending on his cock once more, drawing him in until his nose brushed Geralt’s pelvis. His throat constricted around Geralt’s cock, tight and euphoric, and the cry Geralt gave echoed off the walls. O’Dimm had worked him so thoroughly that within three heavy sucks, Geralt had finished and shuddered and cried his way through his orgasm. He spilled so much that he thought, vaguely, that there must not be anything left in him. When he was done, he felt completely empty and hollowed out, but not unpleasantly so.

Exhaustion settled into his bones when the adrenaline the orgasm had provided him had run its course. He slumped against the statue, his legs shaking, almost too weak to support him. If not for the chains holding him up, he probably would have collapsed in a satiated heap.

He let his head lull forward, his lips parted to accommodate his heavy breathing. His heart was thundering in his chest and a pleasant light-headedness had descended on him. He didn’t mind at all that his restraints were drawing painful lines into his wrists.

He heard O’Dimm stand. Long, nimble fingers stroked over his forehead and through his sweaty hair, tucking it behind his ears. Geralt leaned into the touch, enjoying the tenderness and warmth it offered. He didn’t get much of that these days. One of the fingers snaked beneath his blindfold and gently pried it off.

The first thing Geralt saw was flickering orange. He groaned, grimaced, and blinked to hasten his pupil’s adjustment to the sudden onslaught of light. The orange soon became recognisable as hundreds of candles forming a crescent around the statue he was tied to. He’d never seen so many candles in one place. It took considerable effort to tear his gaze away and survey the rest of the room, which he was startled to find he recognised. He was, of all places, in Lebioda’s temple. The recently renovated one. He looked as best as he was able at what he was attached to and found – to his great dismay – that it was a statue of Lebioda. Unlike the statue Geralt had assisted in building, this one had its hands together, in mid-prayer, and its eyes empty gazed down at him.

Geralt frowned at O'Dimm. “Can’t say I would have chosen desecrating a temple as a romantic outing.”

“Well, I can’t think of anything more romantic,” said O’Dimm, grinning and drawing Geralt forward to jostle their lips together. “Blasphemy is a high indulgence.”

“Prefer to keep my nose out of religion.”

“It’s not really your nose that’s in it, now is it?” O’Dimm reached down and palmed his spent cock for emphasis. “If you like, you can cry out to the Gods while I’m fucking you. Perhaps they will forgive your part in defiling a sacred place.”

Geralt’s eyebrows shot up. That was awfully brazen. “Don’t recall agreeing to be fucked.”

“No? Do you have an objection?”

Geralt hesitated. There was a certain thrill in having sex on holy ground. He wasn’t usually the sort to disrespect religion, regardless of how ridiculous he found certain divines, but he was aroused, and curious, and not at all opposed to O’Dimm holding him against the statue and fucking him until he couldn’t walk. As he had already come once, he was dazed and happy and his desire to have another explosive orgasm was steadily winning out over his basic decency.

“You’re a bad influence on me,” he said, dropping his head back against the marble.

“I assume that means I may continue.” O’Dimm brushed a thumb over a pec, catching on a nipple. It was already a tight nub from his earlier ministrations. “May Lebioda watch over us,” he said, chuckling and dropping his hands down to his trousers. Lacking buttons and a belt, all he had to do was shove them down around his thighs to free his cock, which sprang up against his stomach, hard and red.

Without meaning to, Geralt licked his lips at the sight. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been fucked by a man. A shame, really, because prostate stimulation was among the things he would have liked to enjoy on a daily basis.

The flickering candles seemed to light up O’Dimm’s eyes, rendering the dark brown a burning hazel. There was a hint of gold, perhaps, but Geralt’s eyes involuntarily shut as O’Dimm brought their bodies together, his cock coming to nestle against the clef of Geralt’s ass. Geralt failed to get a good look and he couldn’t bring himself to much care. He ground down upon O’Dimm’s cock, eager to start.

“So impatient,” murmured O’Dimm, his voice guttural. He slid his palms up Geralt’s thighs, catching him under the knees and heaving them up and apart, enabling him to press even closer. He adjusted Geralt’s legs so they were wrapped loosely around his waist. The head of his cock brushed Geralt’s entrance, and it belatedly occurred to Geralt that he hadn’t had any kind of preparation.

“Got some oil on you?” he asked dazedly and started to reach for his pockets before remembering he was bound.

“Ah, yes, certainly.” There didn’t appear to be any pockets on O’Dimm’s outfit, but he nonetheless produced a vial of oil from his jacket, uncorking it with a thumb. He spilled half of it onto his cock, and then poured the other half onto two fingers, which he then proceeded to unceremoniously shove into Geralt, drawing out a yelp of surprise.

“A little warning would’ve been nice,” said Geralt, gritting his teeth and wincing. It’d been some time since he’d had anal stimulation and he was painfully tight around O’Dimm’s fingers. “Look, if you could just- there’s some ridged-“ Before he could finish, O’Dimm had pushed in deeper, rubbing hard at the little bundle of nerves nestled deep inside. Geralt jerked and inhaled harshly.

“Come now, Geralt; I have been alive much,  _much_  longer than you.” O’Dimm continued to stroke, hard and unrelenting. “Do you really think I’m unfamiliar with any of the machinations of the human body?” He nestled his face between Geralt’s neck and shoulder, smiling against Geralt’s skin, all teeth. “But this will be my first with a witcher. I wonder how your body differs from the average humans… I suppose we’ll have to do some experimentation to find out, hm?”

Geralt tried to reply, but the pressure was building up, becoming blindingly pleasurable and making it impossible to grapple for focus on anything else, and the only sound he managed to force out of his throat was a strangled groan. He’d turned warm all over, flushed on his chest, face, and neck. His ears burned. O’Dimm said something else, but he wasn’t paying attention.  

And then O’Dimm’s fingers abruptly withdrew. It took Geralt a few seconds to wind down, and when he did, he levelled a glare on O’Dimm.

“I can’t have you finishing again just yet,” explained O’Dimm as he adjusted his grip on Geralt, positioning his cock at Geralt’s entrance. When he smiled at Geralt, it was toothy and pink and wider than Geralt had ever seen it. “Ready to  _sing_  for the good prophet, Geralt?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He plunged in, right up to the hilt, sending Geralt’s back skating up the statue and forcing forth a cry. Geralt involuntarily twisted in his bindings and arched up off the statue, slamming his heels into O’Dimm’s back. It dragged him in closer, deeper, if that were possible, and O’Dimm responded by hooking his arms up under Geralt’s legs to steady them both. He drew his hips back, then slammed in again – Geralt cried out a second time, and despite the fact the sound was pushed through clenched teeth, it was loud enough to echo throughout the temple. Hopefully no passers-by would think to investigate, though Geralt was in no state of mind to care, currently.

The pace O’Dimm set was almost too much, rough and with no regard for his comfort, but it didn’t take long for the pressure on his already sensitized prostate to banish any complaints from his mind. O’Dimm seemed to be making a concentrated effort to stimulate it, and – fuck, he was doing an incredible job, making Geralt produce sounds he hadn’t even known he had the capacity to make. At some point his jaw fell open and those sounds became louder, echoing off the walls, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not while O’Dimm was thrusting into him, his fingers pressing bruises into Geralt’s thighs, his bared teeth gleaming in the light.

Geralt couldn’t help but squirm, shifting all his limbs and curling his fingers and toes, overwhelmed by the sensations. It wasn’t often that he lost control of himself, even during sex. A need for control was impressed on witchers from their earliest years, and Geralt had arrived at Kaer Morhen a  _toddler_. He was experienced at maintaining control even in the most exceptional of circumstances. But all his nerves were frayed and sensitive, and it was all too much, and so he practically sobbed when O’Dimm lathed his tongue over his sweaty chest, right between his pecs.

He didn’t stop at Geralt’s chest, licking his way up Geralt’s sternum and nosing into the hollow of Geralt’s collarbones, pressing marks into the skin there with his teeth. They would bruise and linger, no doubt. Their time in the temple would not soon be forgotten.

He came without even needing be touched, shouting and shuddering and moving every limb and extremity, abandoning control over his motor functions. O’Dimm, however, did not stop when Geralt fell still and slumped against his chest. He continued to thrust, and within minutes Geralt was hard again. He might be able to come once more, perhaps twice; witcher stamina would keep him going longer than your average man, but he wouldn’t be able to outlast O’Dimm, who had yet to display even the slightest hint of exhaustion.

“Do you know, Geralt, how many prayers  _I_  have received?” asked O’Dimm, his words strained, forced out around pants and grunts. “Far too many, considering that is far from how I am to be called upon, but I can’t expect too much of humans.”

Geralt struggled to pay attention.

“With my current obscurity, I have –“ An unsteady breath. “–Have had to adjust to the various methods people use to acquire my help, and I do quite enjoy the things people come up with.” 

Geralt’s head lulled against the marble.

“But the  _prayers_ , Geralt. People ask for such  _curious_  things.” O’Dimm pulled Geralt’s hips down into a particularly hard thrust, drawing forth a cry. “Sometimes, they ask to be… well, there’s no nice way to put it: they ask to be  _fucked_.” He chuckled hotly against Geralt’s neck. “But they always seem so terribly disappointed when I appear.”

Unable to reply, Geralt merely panted. He was only recognizing every other word. Something about prayers, requests… and O’Dimm seemed happy to oblige, no matter how odd they were.

“What they want – what all of them have wanted, thus far, was not to be laid by a simple merchant of mirrors. So I gave them what they wanted; I showed them things the human body and mind aren’t meant to see and aren’t meant to feel.” One of O’Dimm’s hands dropped from his thigh to instead slide up Geralt’s heaving chest. “They experienced euphoria before they died. And yes, they died. Living through such a thing would be a feat.”

O’Dimm’s fingers closed around his neck. His palm pressed hard against Geralt’s windpipe, restricting airflow, and that was enough to startled Geralt into sobriety. Nonetheless, he still struggled to understand exactly what O’Dimm was saying, soft as his voice had become. It didn’t sound quite right. Preternatural, if Geralt had to put a word to it; he couldn’t think of how else to describe it. It didn’t sound right. It made his head spin.

“But you’ve a talent for accomplishing feats, don’t you, Geralt.”

The candles flickered and died. In the stifling darkness that fell, he could see only O’Dimm’s eyes, glowing bright in the darkness, and a hint of grey between his lips – his teeth, Geralt’s mind vaguely informed him, but they couldn’t be, because O’Dimm’s teeth didn’t look like the ones he was looking at now. He might’ve called it a trick of the lights, except there was no light. There was only white, and grey, and the black crawling at the edges of his vision as O’Dimm pressed down harder.

O’Dimm hit his prostate again. The pleasure was building, profound in its intensity. 

“Do you think you could survive?”

The grip on him didn’t feel quite right, didn’t feel normal, and he couldn’t breathe.

“Shall we give it a try?”

He couldn’t breathe.

“Perhaps you’ll be the one, Geralt.”

O’Dimm’s eyes shined. They were brighter, bigger, driving away the black, and he saw  _something_ hunched in the dark, and he couldn’t

* * *

When Geralt awoke, he did so in a manner that ensured the entirety of Corvo Bianco knew he was awake. That is to say, he flailed his way out of bed with a shout and fell hard onto the floorboards. Barnabas-Basil was at his door in seconds, and only when he saw Barnabas-Basil’s eyes widen behind his glasses did he realise he was naked and quite filthy. He quickly retrieved his bed sheets and swathed himself in them.

“Er, sir,” began Barnabas-Basil uncertainly. “Do you – do you require assistance?” He remained in the threshold, gaze diverted. “I can send someone out for a medic, if need be.”

“I’m fine,” he said, which wasn’t entirely true, but he would be less not-fine when Barnabas-Basil wasn’t in the room. He brought his knees up to better shield himself and his numerous injuries. The last thing he wanted was for Barnabas-Basil to decide to call for a medic on his own prerogative. “Could you tell Marlene to start breakfast? I’ll be out shortly.”

Barnabas-Basil hesitated. “I can do so sir, if you’re sure you’re alright.”

“If I wasn’t, I’d let you know,” he assured the man. “And get yourself some breakfast while you’re at it.”

“Very well, sir. If you need anything, I’ll be right next door.”

“Thanks, BB.”

The moment the door was closed, Geralt threw aside the blanket to get a better look at his injuries. On closer inspection, none of them seemed particularly dire, and they seemed to be in the third stage of healing despite Geralt having no recollection of where most of them had come from. Come to think of it, most of his memories of the prior night were vague and flittering, hard to grasp onto for more than a few seconds at a time. He got a tension headache when he focused too hard on one single thing. He knew he’d woken up somewhere and met O’Dimm, received a blowjob, been fucked up against a marble statue of the Prophet, and it was from that point that things got muddled.

For some reason, the colour yellow stuck out to him. Bright, burning yellow. Had O’Dimm’s eyes been…? Perhaps, but that seemed a poor reason to remember so little, unless O’Dimm had deliberately gone through his memories and muddled them up. Had he that ability, Geralt wouldn’t have been surprised. It was hardly a feat when O’Dimm could control time. Why he would want to, though, Geralt didn’t know. O’Dimm’s motivations for what he did were often lost on Geralt.

He traced his fingers over the fresh marks on his body. They weren’t consistent with human-inflicted wounds. There were two lacerations on his thighs, as though talons had been drawn through the flesh, and a bite mark on his shoulder roughly the size of his hand, definitely not inflicted by human teeth. They were hard to the touch, some parts shiny and pink, others covered in a scab. Full healing was a ways off, but it was clear O’Dimm – or a sorceress or sorcerer he had employed – had performed healing on him. They would scar, which was probably why O’Dimm had left them in the middle stages of healing, but they wouldn’t be painful unless he picked at them until the skin broke again.

He got up to examine himself in a mirror hanging beside his bed. The first thing to catch his eye were the bruises on his neck, vivid and blue. No wonder BB had looked at him with such concern. He looked like someone had attempted to choke him to death. When he touched them, they didn’t hurt, but now that he had acknowledged them, they throbbed faintly.

He vividly recalled O’Dimm wrapping a hand around his throat. He recalled the pleasure that had accompanied it, too, and looked disbelievingly down at himself when his cock stirred. Now  _wasn’t_ the time for that.

He found more bruises on his wrists, but the scuff marks beneath them were significantly more vivid. He rubbed them with a thumb. They were going to need some cream. 

“Chains, of all things,” Geralt muttered to himself as he went to retrieve just that from his bedside table. Regis had whipped him up a little something for his various ailments recently and it functioned as both a numbing agent and healing cream.

With the cream in hand, he perched himself on the edge of the bed, in front of the mirror, and continued to examine himself as he rubbed the medicine into his skin. There wasn’t much else to note other than a bite mark here and a scratch there, but he desperately wished he could remember just how he had received the more serious of injuries. Not that he minded them; a little roughhousing during sex went well, but he didn’t like not remembering. It made him uneasy. It was like waking up after being blackout drunk, except he definitely hadn’t had anything to drink the night prior.

O’Dimm had a lot to answer for.

Seeking O’Dimm out was going to be difficult, and currently, Geralt didn’t have the energy for it. On top of everything else, he was exhausted. It wasn’t the kind of exhaustion he was used to, either. It crawled under his skin, bone deep, compelling him back into bed, and it had razed through his mind as well, making even the simplest of thoughts difficult to sustain. That kind of exhaustion. Even after his most strenuous of jobs, he hadn’t felt this fatigued. It seemed whatever O’Dimm had done to him, whatever he couldn’t remember, had pushed him beyond his limit. He needed time to recuperate.

He only managed to stay up long enough to eat breakfast before retiring to bed. Barnabas-Basil kept on peeking in to make sure he was alright until Geralt told him to take Roach out for some exercise, which rid Geralt of him long enough to fall asleep.

The following week was uneventful. Geralt spent most of his time resting, eating, and reading out on the chaise lounge Yennefer had brought outside during her last visit. He was pleasantly surprised to find his injuries healed quicker than any he’d ever had before, though he was still dealing with fatigue three days in. It was only by the end of the week that his energy levels returned to normal.

The moment he was well enough to do so, he started looking for O’Dimm. The only problem was, he hadn’t the faintest idea of how to compel O’Dimm’s presence. He could draw a pentagram, perhaps, light some candles and try to repeat the chant Olgierd had done in the painted world, but if it hadn’t worked for Olgierd, there was no reason it should work for him.

The gifts were still appearing, so Geralt decided to send a message by leaving one gift on a chair outside with a note attached to it. A simple ‘we need to talk’ scribbled on a scrap of paper. He was sure O’Dimm would see it, but whether or not he would oblige Geralt’s request was still in question. If he didn’t, Geralt would simply have to wait until O’Dimm deigned him with his presence, and perhaps dragged Geralt into another sexcapade while he was at it.

He was fortunate that when O’Dimm finally  _did_  appear, he neither had to wait long, and nor was he dragged into indulging his base side. O’Dimm merely appeared before him one day, smiling amicably and steepling his fingers, and bowed in greeting. It took Geralt a few seconds to register that O’Dimm was there, startled as he was. The day was bright and hot and they were in complete view of people toiling away in his fields. These were not conditions O’Dimm usually met him under. It didn’t exactly facilitate their usual activities.

“About time you showed up,” said Geralt as he set the book he had been reading aside.

“I would have come sooner, but the life of a mirror merchant is busy work.” O’Dimm produced a slip of parchment from his pocket. It took Geralt a moment to recognise it as the note he had left. “You seem eager to talk. Go on, Geralt. I know you have questions, so ask away.”

Geralt was prompt to ask his question. “What the hell did you do?”

O’Dimm appeared amused, the corners of his mouth curving even further. “I don’t quite follow, I’m afraid. You’ll have to be more specific.”

Geralt hooked a finger around the collar of his shirt and tugged it down, unveiling the jagged scar that extended from his neck to his shoulder. “I repeat: what the hell did you do?”

“Nothing you didn’t find enjoyable, I assure you.” O’Dimm examined the scar with visible pleasure. “But that is quite the mark I left. Perhaps I should get rid of the others so only mine remain.”

Geralt opened his mouth, then closed it, a touch flustered by that idea.

“Getting embarrassed, Geralt?” O’Dimm laughed, leaning closer. “I could, if you like. Do you wish me to?”

“No,” he said quickly, reacting more to the mention of ‘wish’ than anything else.

O’Dimm arched an eyebrow, but didn’t seem particularly put-off by the haste of Geralt’s answer. He pried Geralt’s hand away from the shirt and replaced it with his own, dragging his nails lightly over the raised flesh on Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt let him. The touch felt nice, and his scar tingled faintly.

“They’re healing as well as I had hoped.” O’Dimm’s hand drifted to Geralt’s neck, where the faint remnants of bruises were almost completely faded. “As are these.”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Geralt reminded him.

O’Dimm shrugged. “I did answer. We had sex. It got a little… vigorous.”

“This,” began Geralt, gesturing once against to the bite mark on his shoulder. “Doesn’t look remotely like ‘a little vigorous’ to me. Looks more like you invited a werewolf to participate.”

“Now there’s an idea.”

Geralt glared at him.

“Alright, Geralt,” said O’Dimm, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I myself was the werewolf, in a manner of speaking. I decided to unveil another form of mine.”

“You have three?”

“It’s rather more like  _stages_ ,” said O’Dimm, chuckling. “I am between planes of existence, you see. The closer to my plane I am, the less... humanoid I appear.” He straightened and folded his hands behind his back. “I thought to show you what I really looked like. It didn’t quite work out.”

Geralt rubbed an eye with a thumb. “That mean we weren’t on earth in that temple?”

“Very astute,” said O’Dimm. “I brought you to a different realm for that last part. Closer to my realm.”

“And then?”

“You came a few times and proceeded to pass out.”

That was a little embarrassing to hear. “Might not’ve if you hadn’t been choking me.”

“I did get carried away, and for that I apologize.” O’Dimm shook his head gravely. “You are less fragile than the average human, but fragile nonetheless. It will be something I keep in mind for the future, though it seems you managed to be exposed to my plane without significant trauma.”

“Can’t remember a thing. How’s that not significant trauma?” asked Geralt.

“Oh, no. I did that myself,” O’Dimm explained. “When you passed out, I rather overreacted. I took the memories assuming it would minimize whatever damage had been inflicted.” He shrugged. “But there doesn’t appear to be any damage at all, so should there be a next time, I may leave them intact.”

Geralt regarded him curiously. “You panicked?” He hadn’t thought O’Dimm had the capacity for  _panic_.

The hesitation before O’Dimm’s answer suggested he had indeed panicked. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Sounds like you panicked to me.” 

O’Dimm’s brow twitched slightly, but he didn’t stop smiling. “Let us move on. I’ve already given you far more answers than I ought to have.”

“Mhm, it’s besmirching your reputation,” said Geralt dryly. He still had questions, of course, but he didn’t expect asking them to get him anywhere. He’d reached his criteria for today, apparently.

Without warning, O’Dimm turned and dropped into the seat beside Geralt, crossing his legs at the ankle. Geralt had to shuffle into a corner to provide him with enough room to sit comfortably. They were both rather large men and the chair was on the smaller side.  

Geralt figured he wouldn’t get the opportunity to continue reading today, so he abandoned his book completely, placing it aside and reaching for the jug of apple juice Marlene had left out for him.

“Why all the gifts?” he asked. A question that had been gnawing at him, but one he hadn’t thought to ask last they had met. He’d been rather distracted by the chains and cock in his ass. “If you don’t mind answering one more question,” he added.

“Not at all,” said O’Dimm, hands resting in his lap. “I’ve been curious to know if you’ve been enjoying them, if you’ll indulge me.”

“I have been.”

“Good. I’d hate my effort to have been a waste.” O’Dimm looked him over from top to bottom. “However, I’ve yet to see you wear anything I’ve gifted you. It’s quite disheartening.”

“I use the gloves in the garden, sometimes,” offered Geralt. “Might be more inclined to wear the other things were your intentions clearer. I’ve half the mind to think you’re cursing them.”

“I would  _never_ , Geralt,” said O’Dimm, mock offended, complete with recoil and a hand spread on his chest. “You seem quite willing to go along with my games, so why ever would I? It would only serve to push you away, and I find you much too enjoyable to do that.”

“I was being facetious,” said Geralt, drinking apple juice straight from his jug. He swallowed several mouthfuls before continuing. “If you’re giving them to me to keep an eye on me, there’s no need. You’re welcome here.”

“Oh?” O’Dimm’s eyebrows jumped toward his hairline.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” He was already regretting his words. Allowing O’Dimm – the ‘incarnate of evil’ – into his premises at his own whim probably wasn’t one of his smarter decisions. It was a little late to rescind the offer now, however.

O’Dimm clapped his hands together. “How charitable of you! I’ll be sure to take advantage.”

“I don’t doubt you will,” said Geralt, a touch wry. He put his jug aside.

“Don’t I always.” O’Dimm coiled an arm around his waist, drawing him closer. He tucked his face between Geralt’s neck and jaw. “How about a game?”

“We’re not already playing one?” he asked, trying and failing to maintain his composure. His breathing stuttered as O’Dimm kissed his neck.

“You wouldn’t have to ask that if we were.”

“Well,” began Geralt, glancing down at O’Dimm. “Whatever you’re planning, it can’t be done out here. Can’t let my employees stumble upon this; I prefer being able to look them in the eyes.”

O’Dimm planted a kiss on his lips and leaned back, propped up by an elbow draped across the back of the chair. “Come now, Geralt; are those the  _only_  games you can think of? Perhaps I meant a game of gwent.”

Geralt snorted in disbelief. “Might be more convincing if you weren’t groping me.”

“Mm, well…” O’Dimm ran a thumb under Geralt’s jaw, pressing it to his thrumming pulse point. “There are many, many ways one can play gwent. A suitably dire consequence for losing can change the whole game.”

“Oh?” choked out Geralt. He got the feeling he wouldn’t mind the ‘dire consequence’ O’Dimm had in mind.

“Indeed.” O’Dimm pulled him up from the chair. “Let’s head inside. I’ve just the thing in mind.”

“No staking souls,” said Geralt, allowing O’Dimm to guide him into the privacy of his home.

“Of course.”

* * *

It became habit for O’Dimm to visit him at all hours of the day. This bothered BB, who struggled to accommodate for O’Dimm like he would any other guest, but Geralt didn’t particularly mind. It would have been nice had O’Dimm managed some consistency, but having company, sporadic though it might have been, was a pleasant change of pace.

What he  _did_  mind was O’Dimm’s aversion to announcing himself. There were times he would turn a corner to find O’Dimm smiling his amiable smile and adrenaline would slam into his veins before he could register who he was looking at. Usually this would lead to vigorous sex, which was an agreeable trade-off, but he still would have liked O’Dimm to use his front door once in a while. If Witcher’s weren’t impervious to heart attacks, at this rate Geralt would be the one to find that out. He expected he would get used to O’Dimm’s impromptu appearances long before O’Dimm would start utilizing normal means of entering his house, though, which begged the question: just how long were they going to keep this up?

Geralt had thought about the nature of their relationship before; he had often convinced himself it would end once O’Dimm became bored of him, but it had been months, and O’Dimm had yet to lose interest.

It had to happen eventually. Geralt knew a creature like O’Dimm, ageless and infinite, couldn’t maintain interest in a simple witcher forever. This might not have been an issue for Geralt, except the longer it went on, the less he wanted it to end, and he was beginning to realize it was because he was starting to like O’Dimm for more than just the sex. He was good company; he was clever, witty, brimming with stories, and when he smiled – not that smile he perpetually wore to disarm his quarry, but a  _real_  smile, one that reached his eyes, it reminded Geralt of the first time he had seen Yennefer show him a part of herself few others had had the privilege to witness. He took a private pleasure in it.

With every new encounter, O’Dimm tangled him further in his web, and Geralt let it happen. When it ended, and it would, inevitably, he wondered how much of himself he would be able to retain.

* * *

He didn’t pursue monsters often, these days. Not unless it was on an order from the duchess or a plea from a neighbour. He was fortunate that things in Toussaint were currently relatively peaceful. After the influx of vampires, many of the beasts that had wandered Toussaint’s hills had fled, and the vampires had followed them shortly after, repelled from Toussaint by their superior. It would be some time before the peace would be significantly disturbed again.

Or so Geralt had thought. He hadn’t counted on Dettlaff having friends; friends who, like everyone else in Toussaint, assumed Dettlaff dead. Regis was currently keeping the man under lock and key while he regenerated, so they couldn’t be faulted for that assumption, but it didn’t make being accosted on his way toward Beauclair and dragged off his horse by angry, groping hands any less vexing.

He struck his elbow as he fell and attempt to grab for his steel sword, which was the only sword he regularly carried nowadays. His assailants were quick to tear it off him and throw it beyond his reach.

“Where Dettlaff remains?” A bruxa hissed, barely intelligible, and Geralt grimaced, leaning away from the claws twisted around his shirt. Another bruxa ensured he didn’t get far by grabbing his arms and pulling them behind himself. The grip wasn't terribly strong; the Bruxa must have been young, but it was enough to prevent him from moving far.

“There aren’t any,” he managed to bite out.

A human man – in appearance, anyway – dropped to his knees before Geralt. “The remains of a higher vampire are not easily disposed of. Tell us where they are.”

“There aren’t-” he began again, but his words ended in a gasp as the bruxa’s claws dug deep into his chest, spraying his shirt red.

“Don’t lie,” the man hissed, and Geralt had to bite down on a groan as the talons descended deep enough to scrape along bone. “I’ve no patience for human trickery.”

“He’s alive,” Geralt barked, lips pulled back in a snarl. “He’s fucking alive, regenerating.”

“You presented his head to the duchess,” said the man. "A skull currently on display, that has not regenerated. He is dead, and you are lying."

“It wasn’t his head.”

All three vampires regarded him with reproach. They didn’t release him. Assuming they had any intention to do so, Geralt didn’t expect it to happen until they were presented with irrefutable evidence that Dettlaff was alive. To get that evidence, Geralt would need to guide them to Regis’ place, and that wasn’t something he particularly wanted to do. Dettlaff’s friends would undoubtedly attack when they found out Dettlaff was being kept captive, and it was one thing to be forced to kill lesser vampires, as Regis had done in the past to protect Geralt, but quite another to be forced into killing sentient vampires that simply wanted to retrieve their friend.

Months after the Beast of Beauclair case, and Dettlaff was still causing him trouble. Should he survive this, he would be sure to tell Dettlaff what a pain in the ass he was.

“Explain,” said one of the bruxa.

Geralt hurried to do so. “Decided to let him live. He’s regenerating.”

The vampire’s brow was creased with doubt. “If what you say is true, then lead us to him. We cannot take you at your word. Humans are deceitful creatures.”

“I’m not exactly human,” Geralt ground out, struggling to remain still beneath the bruxa. If he writhed, he would only exacerbate the damage.

“You’re close enough.”

“Fine.” Geralt was in no position to argue. “Can’t bring you to him, but I can bring someone here to explain what is going on.”

The vampire hesitated. The bruxa’s grip tightened.

“I do not agree with this,” said the vampire at last. “You will tell us where he is. Now.”

“You’ll just get yourself killed.” Geralt eyed the bruxa holding him around the torso.

The vampire bared its teeth. “Is that a threat?”

“A warning.”

“They’re the same thing, in this context.” The vampire gestured. The bruxa’s claws rose from his chest, coming to rest over his neck instead, precariously close to his throat. It wouldn’t take much for her to sever his windpipe. “You guide us to him or you die.”

It didn’t look like he had much choice. He wasn’t about to die over Dettlaff. In any case, they were much more likely to listen to another vampire than a human, and who better to convince them than Regis? The man had a silver tongue. And if worse came to worst and his attempts to parlay failed, he knew Regis would be able to deal with them with ease. He didn’t  _want_  Regis to have to kill his brethren, but if heads rolled, heads rolled; sometimes it was unavoidable. 

“Fine,” he said, throwing his hands up in surrender. One of the Bruxa startled slight and slapped his hands back down. “It’s a twenty-minute walk from here," he said while letting his arms drop to his sides. "I’ll take you.”

There was a long, tense pause before the vampire nodded to its bruxa companions. They released him, albeit with reluctance, and stood close to him as he clamoured to his feet. They didn’t allow him to retrieve his sword. One of the bruxa grabbed it in his stead, slinging it over her shoulder and smiling toothily when Geralt cast her a bitter look.

He felt too vulnerable without at least one sword on him. And surrounded by vampires as he was, that feeling was very much validated.

The journey was slow, quiet, and uneventful. The bruxa had pulled their hoods over their faces and walked at either side of him, hunched and ready to spring should Geralt do something unexpected, while the other vampire – presumably a katakan or higher – trailed along behind them. If he tried to run, there was no chance he would get more than a few feet before being cut down.

They arrived at Mère-Lachaiselongue Cemetery to Regis kneeling in the dirt with a bag full of mandrake roots. Upon spotting them, Regis offered a small, tight smile in greeting and stood, brushing down his coat before approaching. No doubt he could tell Geralt’s companions were fellow vampires.

“I don’t often receive so many guests,” said Regis, speaking in a tone one could easily misconstrue as warm if one didn't know him well. The hint of hostility was barely detectable. He picked dirt out from under his nails as examined his guests, feigning nonchalance. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“We’re here to see Dettlaff,” said the leader, coming up to stand before Regis. He made no attempt to hide his own hostility. “Your friend tells us he is alive, and that makes you very lucky, Regis. We were to find you next.”

Regis arched an eyebrow. “I see. And who, if I may ask, told you I killed Dettlaff?"

"It was rumoured," answered the man.

"Ah, one should never trust a rumour," said Regis with a shake of his head. Anyone else would have withered under the look of disappointment he was giving Geralt's captor, but the man merely turned up his nose at Regis. "You are Adrian, are you not?" asked Regis.

“Yes, from Ammurun.” Adrian gestured to his companions. “This is Allisa and Tamil. They, too, are here to see Dettlaff.”

“I’m afraid he’s not available,” said Regis. “If you come back in perhaps a year or two he’ll be fit for conversation. I'm sure you do not wish to disturb him unnecessarily.”

“We are  _not_  waiting a year or two,” said Adrian. He stepped closer to Regis, crowding him in a way that reminded Geralt of a territorial dog. “You will take us to him or we will force you, Regis.”

“Force me?” Regis’ eyes narrowed. “I’ve no intention of keeping you from him, but he is currently in no state to be seen. Violence is unnecessary. I only ask that you respect his privacy.”

“Your privacy, you mean,” said Adrian, sneering.

“There’s no need for hostility.”

“Oh, but there is,” said Adrian. “I always knew Dettlaff was the only good thing to come out of Gharasham. Centuries in this new land and the lot of you are as slimy and manipulative as you’ve ever been.”

“We are indeed in a new land, so don’t you think it’s time to resign that rivalry?”

“While you deny me access to a close friend? I don’t see why I should.”

Regis sighed extracted himself from Adrian's personal space. “I see there’s no reasoning with you. Very well, you may see him, but you aren’t to disturb him.”

“We’ll see whether or not he  _wishes_  to be disturbed,” said Adrian, sneering and grabbing Geralt by the forearm, forcing him to start walking. Regis’ eyes narrowed at the manhandling.

“He’s in no state to be speaking,” said Regis as he stepped toward the crypt. “You will see him, and then you will leave.”

Adrian was quick to follow Regis, striding up behind him, so close that his feet practically touched Regis' heels. The proximity had to be putting Regis on edge, but Regis made no attempt to place more distance between them. Perhaps he was worried Adrian was looking for an excuse to start a fight, and if that was the case, Geralt would probably end up being the first one to hit the ground.

He guided their small group into the depths of the crypt, through dark, dusty rooms and down a set of stairs. At the landing of a storage basement, they found Dettlaff gathered in a writhing heap. All the pieces of him had yet to reattach themselves. A part of a wing sat a few paces away and a forearm lay down by his thigh. One of his feet hung off his ankle, and a significant chunk of his neck hung loosely off of him, dragging across the ground as he moved. Adrian gasped upon seeing Dettlaff, abandoning his bruxa and Regis in favour of rushing up to Dettlaff and kneeling before him, gathering the moaning beast into his arms. Dettlaff’s one intact wing gave a feeble flap at the contact. It was a pitiful display, like a feral mutt receiving the first kind touch it had in years.

“As you can see,” said Regis. “He is still recovering.”

“You did not mention that he was in this form," said Adrian, his voice quivering. “Regis, the chances of him turning back-!"

“Are exceptionally small,” finished Regis sombrely. The bruxa standing behind Geralt bristled. “But that does not mean I will not try.”

Adrian stroked Dettlaff’s smooth head, his expression pinched with pain. While Geralt did not particularly like Adrian and did not regret his actions - he would be dead had he not used exceptional force against Dettlaff - Adrian's pain gave him no pleasure. 

“We should leave him to rest,” said Regis, his voice now gentle.

Adrian’s shoulders shook. He withdrew from Dettlaff with clear reluctance, his fingers skating one final time over the veiny dome of Dettlaff's head. The beast moaned softly at the loss of contact. “I came here thinking him dead, for which I intended to kill you and the witcher.” He slowly stood and his eyes were glassy and narrowed as he turned to face Regis. “But I see no difference between death and what has been done to him here. If you have any love for our kind left in you, I suggest you help me kill the witcher for what he has done.”

"Adrian, please," Regis pleaded. "This isn't what Dettlaff would want-"

"Isn't it?" Adrian bared his teeth. "You barely knew him, Regis. You barely took the time." He stalked forward. "But if you wish to be felled alongside the Witcher, then I will indulge you. You can watch him die as I have watched the cognisance in Dettlaff die."

Regis moved so quickly that he was a mere blur of motion. He wrenched Geralt out of the bruxa’s grip and pulled him close, out of harms way.

“You won’t touch him,” said Regis, and he was no longer calm, nor sympathetic. “Leave, Adrian, for the sake of you and your friends.”

“Leave for your own sake, Regis,” said Adrian coolly. “Or it’ll take another fifty years to pull yourself back together.”

“And without me, where will Dettlaff be?” asked Regis harshly. “I will continue searching for a solution to his predicament, if you let me-“

“No!” snapped Adrian, and within the blink of an eye he was within touching distance of Regis, claws extended. Regis forced Geralt back and out of Adrian’s path. “I do not trust you to do what is right, Regis!" he snarled, spitting and displaying his jagged fangs. "I remember what you were like before. What a childish, selfish  _beast_  you were, and I am certainly not convinced that has changed by your newfound love for _humans_.  _I_  was left to comfort Ava after you fell to the drink yet again; did you know that?" He twitched his claws. "This peaceful period will not last. It is only a matter of time before you are drawn back to your vices.”

The light provided by nearby torches gleamed off of Regis’ talons as he fell into a defensive stance. “This peaceful period will indeed not last, but not for the reason you give.”

With a furious snarl, Adrian surged forward, his claws raised and ready to strike. Regis, however, did not meet him half way; he instead swung around and grasped the bruxa by their necks, flinging them hard into the wall and sending dust and bit of stone spraying down onto their heads. They weren't able to orientate themselves fast enough to prevent him from ripping Geralt's sword out of its sheath and tossing it to Geralt, who easily caught it out of the air.

“You deal with them,” called Regis over his shoulder, rounding on Adrian.

Silver sword or not, Geralt knew would be able to deal with the bruxa. They were young, weak, and the small enclosed space they were trapped in ensured they would be limited in their tactics. Not only that, but it looked as though Regis had dealt quite a bit of damage already with his blow. They were still struggling to find their feet as he rounded on them with his sword raised.

He struck one of the bruxa - Tamil, if he remembered correctly - across the torso and sent them slamming back into the ground, then jerked away from the remaining bruxa just in time to avoid being struck. While Tamil was still recovering, he went at Allisa and swung his sword down like one would a bat. He managed to catch her powerfully across the shoulder and almost sever her arm from her body, but she struck before he could withdraw, giving his forearm a swipe and bringing bloody wounds to the surface of his skin. Superficial ones, he hoped; he couldn’t tell through the folds of his shirt, and he didn't have time to give it even a cursory glance. When the Tamil rose and tried to flank him, he threw his sword in a tight semi-circle and managed to cut her from waist to spine, sending her flailing and screaming to the floor, spilling blood and viscera in a messy torrent.

The remaining bruxa cried out in fury. As did Adrian, who glanced over to watch his fallen comrade bleed to death, crawling her way across the brick and dragging her entrails along with her. It was an unpleasant sight, and Geralt had no desire to linger on it. He pirouetted out of the way of an attack, then feigned, getting himself behind Allisa. While she was momentarily confused and too far into a corner to flee to a vantage point, he threw his sword like a spear, sending it slamming through her throat. She only managed a few, feeble choking sounds before she collapsed in a heap next to her fallen sister.

As far as bruxa went, they had been some of the easiest Geralt had ever dealt with. He suspected they hadn't been alive long, and by the horrible, anguished cry Adrian gave, like that of a parent, he knew his assumption to be correct.

He anticipated Adrian’s attack, lifting his sword in preparation to parry. But it wasn’t enough. He had barely the time to blink before he was being slammed into the wall by his neck and choked by a palm grinding down on his windpipe, stealing the breath from his lungs. Kicking his legs proved futile and clawing at Adrian's wrist even more so. He tried to raise his sword, bit it was pulled easily from his fingers. Adrian was considerably stronger than him.

Regis leapt to his rescue, but even his speed wasn't enough to prevent Adrian from slamming a fist into Geralt's stomach. It took Geralt a good few seconds to register that Adrian’s talons had gone clean through him. The tips of them scraped the wall behind him, staining it red.

With realisation came pain, and it came in such a sudden excruciating burst that all cognisance abandoned Geralt. His limbs moved involuntarily, shifting and twitching like those of an insect pinned down for examination. He was helpless to free himself, helpless to find any kind of reprieve from the agony roiling through him. He could only yell and shake as Adrian’s fist moved inside his gut and destroyed everything it came in contact with. When Adrian was finally dislodged by a furious Regis and thrown across the room, the internal trauma was almost enough to send Geralt into unconsciousness, likely for the final time. It was only Regis catching him before he hit the ground that enabled him to remain even a little bit aware of his surroundings.

Adrian didn't try to stop Regis from cradling Geralt to his chest. He lay in Regis' arms and spilled blood onto Regis’ coat, along with a few other things that made Geralt queasy when he looked at them. 

“Geralt,” whispered Regis, his eyes wide with a fear he had only seen once before, a long time ago. “Geralt, please, stay with me. I- I need to-“

Geralt couldn’t speak. There was too much blood in his lungs and throat. Too much pain. He couldn’t comfort Regis. A twitch of his head was all he managed, and even that sent the room spinning. He was losing blood and fast.

“I’m so sorry. Had I known, I…”

With great effort, Geralt slowly raised his left hand and touched Regis' cheek. He was crying. He hadn't known vampires could cry. "R...r..." He wanted to tell Regis that it was okay, that it wasn't his fault, and while he was still trying to force the words out of his throat, he died.

 

 

 

Or, at least, he should have.

“You really ought to stop getting yourself into these situations, Geralt.”

O’Dimm stepped into his line of sight and smiled down at him. He didn’t seem at all bothered by the hole in Geralt’s abdomen. Neither did Geralt, for that matter; it had ceased to pain him, and when he touched its frayed edges with his fingers, he felt nothing.

He glanced at Regis and Adrian, both of whom had gone completely still.

“I’m dead,” he said after a long moment. He said it with resignation. Death had dogged his footsteps from the day he had been delivered to Kaer Morhen. He had always known he wouldn't be able to outrun it forever.

“Not quite yet, you aren’t,” said O’Dimm.

Geralt snorted and gave his stomach a meaningful gesture. “I’m going to, though, aren’t I? You don’t live through injuries like these.” You didn't live through injuries that had turned your insides to mush. 

“With a deal, you do,” said O'Dimm blithely.

Geralt shook his head, partly in disbelief at O’Dimm’s shamelessness. “You know I’ll say no. Don’t know why you bothered coming.”

“But it’s  _death_ , Geralt.” O’Dimm dropped to his haunches before him, hands clasped between his knees. “It’s permanent.  You don’t truly wish to die, do you?”

“No,” admitted Geralt. He carefully extracted himself from Regis’ arms, sparing the man a glance before standing. The way Regis was looking at him was painful. He couldn’t bare it. “But I’m not about to surrender my soul to you either.”

“We could have terms, just as Olgierd did,” suggested O’Dimm. He circled Geralt slowly, examining the bloody fissures that had been torn into him with interest. “You’re clever. I’m sure you’d find a way to postpone my acquisition of your soul.”

“Not gonna risk it.” There were worse things than death, and Geralt expected O’Dimm would introduce him to them all were he to agree to a deal. His fear of death wasn’t enough to persuade him to take the risk.

“Come now, Geralt. Be reasonable.” O’Dimm closed the space between them, bringing a hand to Geralt’s cheek, cradling his face. He brushed a thumb over Geralt's cheekbone in a way that was so soft, so loving that it made Geralt's stomach twist. “You’ll be leaving your daughter all alone, and that bard friend of yours, and your dear vampire friend here. You don’t truly wish to abandon them, do you?”

“Don’t bother trying to manipulate me.” Geralt caught O’Dimm’s hand by the wrist and pulled it away. “It’s not going to work.”

“Perhaps I just want what is best for you.”

“You never wanted that.”

“So little trust between us.” O’Dimm sighed and fluttered his free hand. “Very well, we'll do a different deal then. No souls required.”

Geralt hesitated. He couldn't help himself.

“You could instead stake-“ began O’Dimm, but Geralt interrupted him.

“No,” said Geralt firmly. He wouldn’t let himself be enticed into O’Dimm’s arms. He was smarter than that. He knew better.

“You haven’t even heard my proposal,” said O’Dimm.

“There’s no need to speak it. I’ll refuse.”

O’Dimm’s smile slowly dropped away. “Stop being unreasonable, Geralt. I’m offering you the opportunity to keep your life.”

“And I’m telling you no,” said Geralt. He released O’Dimm's wrist and returned to Regis’ side. “I’ve lived through death once. I won’t spurn death again. The extra time I’ve had has been enough.”

“Geralt,” began O’Dimm in what was almost a snarl, abandoning his amicability. Geralt had never before seen such anger on his face, not even in defeat. “Do not let yourself die simply to  _spite_  me.”

“I’m not doing it to spite you.” Geralt carefully placed himself back in Regis’ arms, not wishing to startle the man by seemingly teleporting across the room. He brushed away what tears lingered on Regis' cheeks, because it was the least he could do. A final show of affection for a friend who had done so much for him.

He hoped, in time, Regis would be able to forgive himself. None of this had been his fault, but Regis wouldn’t see it that way.

“Then why refuse?” asked O’Dimm. He came to kneel before Geralt. “Why refuse me?”

“Because I don’t want to make a deal with you," said Geralt. "It’s that simple.”

O’Dimm was quiet for a long moment. He did not look away. He did not blink.

“I’ve never given anyone something quite this substantial free of charge,” he said, breaking the silence.

Geralt regarded him with curiosity. “Free of charge?”

“You heard me,” said O’Dimm. 

It was then that Geralt realised - it wasn’t he who was caught in O’Dimm’s web, but O’Dimm who was caught in  _his_. 

“Gaunter-“ he began, but O’Dimm stopped him with a raised hand.

“Don’t, Geralt. Don’t push me any further.”

He fell silent.

O’Dimm stood and snapped his fingers. When time resumed, the only remaining people in the room were he and Regis. The suddenness of it all left Geralt dazed, and it was only Regis breathing a soft, broken whimper into his hair that brought him back to the present. It sounded too much like a plea.  _Please, please don't let him -_

It was a terrible sound and Geralt never wished to hear it again.

He reached up and wrapped his arms around Regis’ quaking shoulders, running a hand down his back. Regis jerked in surprise.

“It’s alright, my friend,” he said. “I’m alright. I live.”

“Geralt.” Regis choked out his name. “The wound, I thought- I was so certain you had- and Adrian, where-“

“I’ll explain later,” said Geralt, leaning his forehead into Regis’ shoulder. “Let’s not linger here. We could both use a drink.”

* * *

It wasn’t long before he saw O’Dimm again. The man appeared at the end of his bed one late sunny afternoon and greeted him with his customary smile. Geralt just barely managed to catch himself before he returned it. He didn’t want O’Dimm thinking he was getting fond.

“Ready to continue our game, Geralt?” asked O’Dimm, and Geralt sighed good-naturedly.

“Let’s get it over with, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 
> 
> [Some stunning art](https://ms-mothball.tumblr.com/post/175707106708/itspusspeepers-fanfictions-made-me-do-this-if) made by Ms-mothball on Tumblr!


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